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Those ruins[1]—which seem curs'd—and frown
As if some evil ghosts were there;
Where bravery scarce dares stay alone,
O what a woeful page they are,
Of man in passion's fierce career:
The very winds that whistle thro',
Seem shuddering midst the gloomy pile:
There spectra meet—and sigh awhile;
And as the screech-owls cry to-whoo!
The fiends of evil shriek and smile.- ↑ The finest ruins in Bohemia are those left by Žižka.
